


Five hundred courses of the sun

by RogueLioness



Series: Fuckuary 2021 [11]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mild Angst, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29846967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueLioness/pseuds/RogueLioness
Summary: Day 11: Bailey Sinclair x Nathaniel "Nate" SewellComfort sex
Relationships: Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: Fuckuary 2021 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194248
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Five hundred courses of the sun

She gasps into the darkness, lethargy coating her limbs, and the weight atop her has her struggling for several seconds before she dimly registers that she’s tangled up in her sheets.

Bailey stills, but her heart is still racing in the cavity of her chest, a terrified, stampeding horse. Her arm aches, and she forces herself to relax her grip on the sheets, bringing it up into the thin swathe of moonlight that illuminates her room. The long scars that run up her forearm gleam a malicious silver, mocking her, making her bare her teeth in a snarl.

The remnants of the dream linger around the corners of her mind. Like particularly persistent poltergeists, they hurl shards at her, sharp-edged memories designed to hurt, and they _do_ , oh they do; her veins start to burn with a phantom acid, and as she recalls, in vivid detail, just how cold that steel table was, and just how the metal buckles of the straps had dug unpleasantly into her skin, a sob slips from her lips, startling her-

making her clench her jaw with a force that brings out an ache at the hinge. _Pull it together_ . She is no weak thing, and she _will not_ let what Murphy did crack her. She’s Bailey-goddamn-Sinclair, dammit, and she is _better_ than letting a stupid fucking nightmare get to her- her hands bunch into fists, and she presses them, hard, against her eyes, defiantly ignoring the wet heat brushing against her knuckles.

Bailey Sinclair does not _cry_. Crying is for children, the refuge for the helpless and the hopeless, and she is neither- 

Before she’s even fully aware of it, she’s out of her bed, pulling on a pair of shorts and tying up her hair, skin prickling with a restless energy that itches to let out. The corridors of the warehouse are empty, the silence pressing down comfortably on her. The training room is empty - a surprise, really, considering how much time Adam spends in there - but it’s also a blessed relief. She ties the wraps around her hands, deftly and efficiently, with a speed borne of experience, and stares at-

Four long marks, starting at her wrist, ending close to her elbow, the first two jagged and raised, the skin an ugly blackened red, looking even more malevolent in the light of the room. She remembers the way Murphy’s fingers caught her, how she’d dislocated her shoulder in her effort to pull away from him, the never-ending red that dripped steadily and vividly from her fingertips. They’d had to use magic to fix it, to repair the shredded muscles and torn nerves, to give her the use of her arm - and part of her is furious, incandescent with rage that _she_ hadn’t been able to stop him, that she’d been so-

She growls, rebels against the word that seeks acknowledgment.

She is not weak.

To prove the point to herself, she sets her fists against the punching bag, the _thwack_ echoing in the room. She hammers the vinyl, pummels it, beating on it with a single-minded focus that drives every emotion from her head, leaving only the dulled pain of abused knuckles in its wake.

The skin on the nape of her neck prickles, and she knows she’s not alone. Only a few weeks ago she’d thought that the reaction was an instinctual warning against a dangerous predator, but she’s been around unit bravo enough to know that it only happens when she’s around-

“Nate,” she greets on a grunt, hissing as the puckered skin of the scar pulls unpleasantly. “Like what you see?”

“What are you doing here?” The _at this hour_ is unsaid but implied. His voice is soft, filled with concern- concern that she does not deserve, not her, not after she failed him. How can he still want to be around her after she failed to stop Murphy from stabbing him?

A part of her recognizes the fallacy in that thought, but chooses to ignore it.

“Couldn’t sleep,” sweat lines her forehead, drips down the side of her face. She doesn’t turn to face him. She doesn’t think she can. “Too restless.”

“Bailey.” He makes her name sound beautiful. Makes her sound like she’s some rare and precious thing, something soft, something meant to be cherished when she knows she’s not. She’s all hard edges and sharp corners, brutish and crude, while he is-

Gentle. Kind. 

Not meant for her.

“I’m fine, Nate.” _Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._

She starts at the feel of his hand, large and warm, on her shoulder. “Bailey, please. Talk to me.”

Stilling, she rests her head on the punching bag, heart twisting at his entreaty. For him, she would, but she doesn’t know how, or where to start. She’s not good with words the way he is, can’t explain the gordian knot within her chest. How is she supposed to put into words how she’d felt her world crumble when he fell to the ground, or the icy slick terror when she’d woken as Murphy’s captive? How does she mention how she’d thought of him the entire time the acid of vampire blood had burned through her? How can she tell him that she hasn’t been able to stop thinking of him from the moment she first saw him, that he haunts her dreams like a siren’s song, that her heart skips a beat when his skin touches hers?

How can she, when he deserves so much better?

She can’t do that to him. Won’t- but she turns with the pressure of his hand, lets him guide her till she’s looking up at him, and then she’s staring up into warm brown eyes, under brows knitted with worry, and she hates herself a fraction more for being the cause of it-

“What’s wrong?” his hands frame her face, fingers bringing down the size of the world till it’s just the two of them. His thumbs stroke her cheekbones as his gaze flickers down the length of her, searching for any injury, any ailment, anything that might be troubling her-

Her breath hitches, breaks on the tiniest of sobs, a sound that has his eyes returning to her in alarm. “Bee?” 

She is on his altar and she will bleed out for him, only for him, for this gentle giant who’s holding her so tenderly; for Nate she will try and coax her churlish tongue to form words she has never let herself speak. “I had a nightmare,” her voice is shaky, the phrase too-thick in her mouth. “About- about Murphy.”

“Ah.” Nate carefully brushes off a stray tendril of hair, tucks it behind her ear. His gaze drops to her arm, at the way the wrappings wind all the way up to her elbow, the frown on his face deepening at the sight. “I’m sorry,” his tone is low, and coated with guilt- and that’s not right, what does he have to feel guilty for? He came for her. He didn’t leave her alone. Does he not know how valuable a gift that is, that quiet certainty humming in her sternum, the unshakable knowledge that she has but to ask, and he will be there for her?

“Don’t,” it comes out sharper than she meant it to, and she winces at the sound of it. “Don’t,” she says again, softer this time. “It wasn’t your fault. You-” her breath rushes out of her as he slowly begins to undo her wrappings, and she fights the urge to yank her hand away, before he can see the ugliness that mars her skin.

Her arm is cradled by his hands, his thumb running soothing circles on the inside of her elbow, the warmth of his skin igniting a different kind of heat within her. “May I?” he asks, and she nods, unable to form words.

Nate slowly lifts her hand, his eyes fixed on hers, then presses his lips to her wrist, to where the thickest of her scars lie.

Her pulse jumps beneath her skin, scrambles in a futile effort to fill his mouth, and the slow embers within her erupt into a blazing inferno. “Nate,” she hisses, swallowing hard at the way his eyes darken. “Please- _”_ she wants more, but she doesn’t know how to ask- but Nate, intuitive as always, knows what she means. 

Still, he asks, because he wouldn’t be Nate if he didn’t. “What would you like, _polýtimos_?”

She tucks the strange word away to investigate later, though she has some theories based on the affection in his tone. Bailey slowly, carefully, places a hand over his heart. “Touch me,” she says, quiet in a way that’s strange even to her own ears. _Touch me, like I mean something, like I’m wanted._ She gnaws on her lip, nearly splitting it in the process. “Just-” _Love me_ , she wants to say, but she swallows it down. “I want-” _to feel beautiful and beloved and yours_ , but those words are held within the tight fist of her fear. “I want you. Please. If- if you want it too-” everything stumbles out imperfect, imprecise, clumsy, and she turns her face away, ashamed at her awkwardness in the face of his elegance.

He holds her chin - lightly, always lightly - between two long fingers and guides her to meet his gaze. His brown eyes are soft and dark, filled with affection, but there’s also a hunger within them, and she shivers, licks her lips with anticipation. “Are you sure?” he asks. 

Her fingers curl around his cheek. He is too good for her, but how can she resist the allure of those hypnotic brown eyes?

“Yes,” she sighs out, letting herself give in.

Nate’s lips curl up into a mischievous smile. “Hold on,” he says, and that’s the only warning she gets before she’s gathered up into his arms, her head spinning with the speed of his movement, and a few short seconds later they’re inside her room. 

Bailey laughs, lighthearted in a way she hasn’t been in a while, as he sets her on the ground. “I guess that’s one good thing about having super speed,” her grin is closer to a smirk as she steps closer to him, “no delays.” With that, she grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him down to her, slaking her mouth across his.

Nate groans, the sound coming from deep within his chest, and pulls her to him, an arm wrapping inexorably around her waist. He gentles her ravenous kiss, stealing her breath with his lips, and when his tongue dips in and strokes against her it’s only his grip on her that keeps her upright. One hand slides around to the back of her head, his grip light as he angles her to deepen their kiss - and Bailey swears she feels her blood turn to magma. Nate’s mouth is plush and his tongue is wicked, and the combination of the two leaves her feeling drugged in the best way possible. She moans into his mouth, her fingers releasing their death grip on his shirt to slide down his sides, reaching around to grab his ass and press his hips to hers, mewling at how hard he is beneath the soft cotton of his sleeping pants.

He breaks away, gasps against her neck before pressing a shaky kiss to her pulse. Bailey gathers the hem of her tank top and yanks it over her head, the movement jerky and ungraceful with the force of her need. Nate watches her with half-lidded eyes, his body stiff, fingers curling at his sides as though he’s trying not to reach out for her- she stills, suddenly hesitant. Or does he not want…?

“Nate?” she tries to keep her voice even, she does, but the hands holding the crumpled garment to her chest tremble just the slightest. “Are you- you don’t- we don’t have to-” she fumbles, as she always does, once more unable to articulate the tangle in her head.

He understands. He does, because he’s _Nate_ and he’s wonderful and intelligent and charming and so, so bright, and he steps towards her. “You’re beautiful,” his voice, low-pitched with desire, sends a shudder up her spine. “I want to touch you,” he whispers, a penitent at Confession, “may I?”

“ _Yes_.”

Nothing, and no one, has ever touched her the way Nate does. His fingers glide over her skin, slowly, his touch both prayer and sin, blunt nails adding to the plethora of sensation. He helps her out of her shorts, hands lingering on her hips, and they both ignore the way the material pools around her feet; she’s caught in his gaze, warm and soft, thick with a mix of emotions that she can’t believe are meant for her, and it makes something wind up beneath her ribs, becoming tauter and tauter, and it makes her afraid- so she tugs at his shirt and smirks up at him. “Off.”

He complies with a smile, undresses till he’s just as bare as her. Bailey licks her lips when she sees the outline of his cock, already hard, pressed up against his boxers. She reaches out and strokes him, dragging her fingers up his length. 

Nate gasps, the sound trailing into a moan. “ _Bee._ ”

“Yes?” She doesn’t stop, relishing the way his lashes flutter against his skin.

“Wait,” he manages to choke out, a hand wrapping around her wrist a second later to gently draw hers away.

She places a palm in the center of his chest. His heart’s beating wildly, his skin hot against hers. When she looks up at him, his eyes are as dark as the night sky, and just as beautiful, and she climbs onto her toes to press her mouth to his, his hand on the small of her back steadying her.

It’s a soft kiss. Slow, in that drawn-out way she’s come to associate with Nate. His fingers trail up her back, sliding under the band of her sports bra to brush against the underside of her breasts, and he smiles against her lips when she gasps. Bailey links her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her as she backs up in the direction of the bed. The startled _oof_ she lets out when her knees hit the frame has Nate pulling away. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Biting on her lip, she grabs his shoulders and pulls him to the mattress; and just as she’d suspected, he manages to twist them so the brunt of her weight falls on him and not the other way around.

“You did that on purpose,” he accuses, his smile taking the heat out of the words.

“Mhmm.” Bailey shifts to straddle his waist, grinding against his erection, breath hitching on a groan at the friction. The world tilts, leaving her reeling, and when she opens her eyes she finds Nate leaning over her, a fond but exasperated look on his face. He settles his hands on her waist, keeping her from seeking out more of that friction. “ _Nate_ ,” she whines, mouth turning downwards on a pout.

“ _Espera, amante_ ,” he whispers to her, and she doesn’t understand the words but the mere sound of them, the way they fall off his tongue, all smooth velvet, a veritable pitcher of cream, has her arching into him, her skin breaking out into gooseflesh. Nate leans up and presses his lips to the delicate jut of her collarbone, laving it with his tongue, breathing endearments against and into her skin that skitter warmly across the surface of her heart. 

Nate presses kisses up the length of her neck, lips satin-soft, his breath warming the hollow of her throat. His hands trail up her sides, nails scraping so lightly against her sensitized skin, one large hand coming around the back of her neck to cradle her head, fingers sliding against her scalp. 

Bailey moans, feeling weightless; she is a being entirely defiant of gravity’s rules, and she would drift away were it not for the weight of his fingers anchoring her. He kisses the underside of her jaw, the point where chin meets neck, the smallest application of teeth soothed immediately by tongue. 

“At all hours,” he whispers a hair’s breadth away from her lips, the faintest trace of peppermint lingering, “at all hours, you run through my veins, _amante_ -” admission made and her body a suitable puddle as a result of them - he kisses her, her face between his hands, his mouth soft, so soft against hers.

“Nate-” she sighs, the only word left in her mind, for he’s driven out everything else. His kiss deepens, the softness giving way to hunger, ravenous and ruthless, and he drinks from her as though she is freshwater and he, a marooned sailor. She wraps her arms around his back, shifting on his lap in a vain attempt to get closer, closer, _closer_ to him - and still, pressed skin-to-skin as they are, thundering hearts separated by what feels like a single shared ribcage, it’s not enough. She does not want to be parted from him, not from his kind eyes and gentle smile and his touches that make her feel- 

beloved

beautiful

_blessed_

He makes a sound, small and desperate, when his hand cups her breast, palm gently squeezing so that his thumb brushes against the taut bud. Bailey’s cry is cut off by the slide of his mouth across hers, his fingers gently plucking and rolling her nipples, his arm holding her tight in place so she can’t move.

Pleasure, thick and heavy and _burning_ , pours through her.

“ _That I might see what the old world could say_ ,” the words drift to her from across the universe, syllables wrapping around her like silken threads, “ _to this composed wonder of your frame-_ ” 

_Shakespeare_ , she thinks dazedly as Nate presses kisses the side of a breast, _only he would quote-_

Bailey keens when he draws the beaded tip between his lips, arching into him, a hand gripping the sheets, the other tangled in his umber locks, her grip so tight he hisses. “Nate,” she sobs, “please, please-”

His mouth is relentless, tongue flicking ruthlessly across her nipple, but he eases his grip on her so she can grind against him- the friction is so good but _it’s_ _not enough_ , and she whines with frustration. “Nate,” her breath breaks off on a gasp, “don’t tease me-” she moans as his fingers brush ever-so-lightly against her slick, swollen core, “-please-”

His eyes, pupils wide and dark with desire, capture hers. She shudders at the sight of it, feels the weight of his hunger crash and meld with hers, leaving her achingly aware of how empty she is. Bailey raises a hand, fingers trembling with the force of her need, and gently touches them to his cheek, marvelling at the sharp intake of breath, the way his lashes flutter. “I want to feel you,” she licks her lips, “in me-” she breaks off before she can say anything too damning, before she can ruin anything, rolling her hips against his instead.

Nate is usually slow. Methodical. Careful and meticulous in his touch. But there must be something in her face, or her tone - or, really, a hundred other little clues she cannot fathom - that tip him off, and she’s barely exhaled before she finds herself flat on her back, the air chill against the wetness of her thighs. Nate stretches over her, lifting her leg to wrap around his waist, a small, choked gasp escaping him as his cock glides against her slick folds. He coats himself in her arousal, the tip of his erection hitting her clit with each pass, making her toes curl.

“Ready, _moja droga_ ?” he asks, a beautiful, affectionate curve to his lips. She nods, and he fills her slowly, letting her get used to the stretch and feel of him. It is exquisite; she feels whole and complete and _right_ in a way she’s never experienced before, and she turns her head to the side so he won’t see the sudden welling of tears. He stills, hilted entirely within her, and reaches to steer her face back to his, brows knitting when he spots the dampness to her eyes. “Am I hurting you?” he asks, voice heavy with worry.

“No,” she shakes her head. She can’t explain, doesn’t have the words, so she gives him a watery smile instead. “You feel- good. Really good.” She splays her palm over his heart. “I-” _think I love you,_ she wants to say, but doesn’t. “You-” _are everything I never knew I wanted-_

He hears the unsaid words, in that way he has. His smile grows impossibly wide. “ _Kochanie_ ,” he breathes, then leans in to kiss her, slow and deep, making her slowly burn from within. He starts to move, his thrusts even and measured, his hand heavy on her hip, the other reaching up to catch hers, their fingers entwining. “Nate,” she mewls, her back arching off the bed. He hears the unspoken plea, hitches her thigh over his arm, and she cries out when his next stroke has him hitting her just right. “Oh god, yes,” she moans, “more, Nate, please-”

Nate obeys, fucking into her with long, scooping motions that fill her exactly right, teeth bared at the lewd sounds that spill from her throat. She can feel his gaze on her skin, scalding her in the best of ways, leaving marks she cannot see but can feel in its wake. Her hand moves down to where they’re joined, and she strums her fingers across her clit, pleasure building upon pleasure till it feels like her nerves are scorched with euphoria, bliss building up in her core, making every part of her tense, her climax building, higher and higher, to a place she’s never been before-

Bailey opens heavy-lidded eyes to look at him; Nate’s forehead is covered with a sheen of sweat, his jaw clenched, eyes hazy with pleasure. His lush, kiss-swollen lips curve upwards when her gaze meets his. Her tongue is thick and heavy with affection, with emotion, and it fills her till she’s afraid she will burst if she doesn’t find the right word- “Nate, sweetheart-” she gasps out, warmth flooding her veins at the way his eyes light up, and he bends over her and kisses her- it is like wildfire, it sets her ablaze and she peaks, falling over the edge to the boundless ocean of ecstasy, her scream swallowed by his mouth. Bailey only faintly registers Nate reaching his peak, her entire being limp and boneless, thoroughly drained, but at peace. 

He moves to lie next to her, his breathing as heavy and ragged as hers, and he shifts to wrap his arms around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. Bailey presses a lazy kiss to the base of his throat, her smile growing wider at the soft rumble of laughter that runs through him and into her.

They stay as they are for several minutes, comfortable in the cocoon of darkness and silence, Nate running his broad palm up the plane of her back. His voice is low, calm, gentle as he asks, “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” she says, snuggling closer to him. “I am.” _I always do when I’m with you_ , she doesn’t add, but his arms tighten around her, and she knows he’s heard it anyway. She’s about to drift off when something strikes her. “That quote,” she mumbles, tripping sleepily over the consonants. “Shakespeare, right?”

He chuckles against her hair. “Yes.”

“How does it end?” She pulls away, rests her head on the crook of her shoulder, blinks up at him.

Nate brushes away an errant strand that’s plastered to her forehead, tucking it securely behind her ear. “ _O, sure I am,_ ” he begins, his voice soft, low, earnest, “ _the wits of former days/ to subjects worse,_ ” he gently kisses her forehead, “ _have given admiring praise._ ”

Bailey sighs, the sound wistful. “You’re-” _Perfection itself. Everything to me. The man I love._ “-amazing,” she settles for instead.

He hums. “As are you, _min skatt_.”

“I mean it, you know.”

Even in the darkness, she can sense his smile. “I know.”

She doesn’t say anything more. She doesn’t need to.

They understand each other just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> The Shakespeare Nate quotes is sonnet 59, which is also where the title comes from.


End file.
